


Make No Mistake, It's Organic

by toewsyourheart



Series: farmer au [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9736034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: “No offense, man, but who steals a bunch of corn? It’s not really in short supply around here?”“It’s or-gan-ic,” Jonny says, pointedly drawing out each syllable. Deputy Kane clearly doesn’t fucking get it. His corn is probably full of pesticides and fertilizers.---Or, Jonathan gets robbed, and Officer Patrick's on the case. They both get more than they bargained for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Jonathan's a farmer. Patrick's a cop. The rest is pretty hand-wavy. 
> 
> Every + denotes a POV switch. 
> 
> \---
> 
> For my girl, K.

Officer responses could afford to be much faster, Jonny thinks, especially in a town like this. As little action as the local PD gets, a robbery of this magnitude should have them all chomping at the bit to get out and investigate, if you ask him. Unfortunately, by his watch, it’s been nearly half an hour since he placed his call at the station, and time is of the fucking essence.

He waited a perfectly reasonable ten minutes, stewing in silence at the kitchen table, before venturing out onto the front porch to wait; then ten more for his feet to touch grass, still damp from the morning dew. He’s been pacing the yard for the last five, scanning the perimeter for anything else amiss, and still, no patrol car. 

His corn is probably halfway across Manitoba by now. 

+ 

Patrick’s not entirely sure what he was expecting when he dispatched a call to a farm in Middle of Nowhere, Canada. The drive alone was enough to bore him right to death, so far on the outskirts of the region that he started to question whether or not his precinct still had jurisdiction. He thought he might be coming out to settle a dispute over cows, as many as he saw on the fucking way.

What he certainly didn’t anticipate was this guy, all dark hair and even darker eyes, standing tall in front of him, barefoot and intensely angry about his organic corn. 

“Uh, I’m sorry, sir. What’s your name again?” 

+ 

“Jonathan. Jonathan Toews, T-o-e-w-s,” Jonny repeats, speaking slowly so maybe it’ll stick somewhere. He already spelled it out to the dispatcher over the phone. Twice. Why the information wasn’t relayed to the officer is beyond him. 

Jonny takes a deep, calming breath, narrowly holding back his many, many criticisms. The utter lack of urgency is by far the most egregious. The sirens weren’t even running when this guy pulled in the drive, for christ’s sake! 

Everything about—Jonny squints down at his name badge again, made hard to read by the obnoxious reflection of the sun off its gold surface. It matches the chain around his neck, glinting against his pale skin where it peeks out from the fabric of his pressed, charcoal gray uniform. It suits him. 

Patrick Kane. 

But the thing is, everything about Deputy Kane screams nonchalance, from the lackadaisical ease with which he exited his vehicle to the smug set of his mouth, dimpled cheeks and all. No wonder it took an extra ten minutes for him to make it out. 

He hmmms curiously at Jonny’s name, licking his lips all the way ‘round, and Jonny doesn’t mean to watch, but it’s surprisingly mesmerizing, despite his ever-waning patience. Deputy Kane’s got pretty, full lips, objectively speaking. Jonny’s annoyed he notices. 

Another second passes in silence before he solves whatever internal mystery he’s working on that’s apparently taken precedence over Jonny’s situation. “You have a stand at the farmer’s market, yeah?” Deputy Kane asks, and Jonny nods to confirm. 

He looks entirely too pleased with himself for simply placing a name with a stand at a market as small as theirs, in a region so sparsely populated. Jonny can only assume he’s new. Perfect.

“My sisters love your homemade soaps,” he remarks, eyes light and smile genuine. Jonny just blinks at him. He knows it’s rude, but they can shoot the shit about his sisters and soap once Jonny gets his stuff back.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what color the trailer is?”

Deputy Kane blows out a breath and shakes his head, incredulous. “Not big on pleasantries, I guess.” Jonny can’t quite tell if he’s amused or offended, but the hint of lisp takes the sting out anyway, if it’s the latter.

“What color is the trailer, Mr. Toews?” Deputy Kane obliges. His smirk returns with the inquiry, so Jonny settles on the former instead.

“Jonathan is fine,” he says in an attempt to make up for his brevity, “and the trailer is red.”

“When’s the last time you saw it?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I loaded my corn—all that fucking corn—parked the thing behind the shed, hung the key—” Jonny shakes it in his hand for emphasis, livid. Who the fuck hotwires an ATV? “—on the porch hook, and went inside.”

“But you don’t care about the ATV?”

“Oh, I care about the ATV,” Jonny amends, and he does, it was expensive, but— “I care about the corn more.”

“But,” Deputy Kane pauses, brow furrowing as if he’s puzzled by the concept of corn as a whole. “Why?”

“It’s organic,” Jonny explains in a word, as there’s no need for any additional, lengthy justification. It’s his and he wants it back. “Anyway, it was stolen sometime between nine last night and eight this morning.”

“Why nine?”

“Because I went to bed then,” Jonny says, and Deputy Kane does that hmmm thing again. It’s maddening.

“Nine, huh? That’s kinda early.”

“Yeah, I guess? What's your point?” Jonny asks. That’s a matter of opinion, not relevance. Nobody steals anything at fucking nine o’clock anyway.

“Just an observation,” Deputy Kane says, taking a couple aimless steps in the general direction of the shed. He glances around suspiciously, just as Jonny was doing earlier. “It’s pretty quiet way out here. You didn’t hear anything at all? The motor had to be loud, no?”

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” Jonny answers, feeling unfairly cursed by something that typically serves as an asset for him. Chickens are noisy as fuck.

“I see,” Deputy Kane says, annoyingly contemplative for something so benign. What’s he even getting at?

“You’ve got plenty of land, more than one shed,” he notes. “Sure you didn’t misplace it?”

He can’t be serious. From the shit-eating grin on his face, it seems he actually might not be, and that just makes it even worse.

“Jesus, is this an investigation or an interrogation?”

+

Patrick laughs. He can’t help it. This is already a disaster, so he figures holding it in it isn’t worth spontaneous combustion. He keeps it brief to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

“Hey, I’m just checking all my boxes,” he says to a pair of murderous, hard set eyes. In truth, the last couple questions were only to see if he could make the tips of this guy’s ears turn an even deeper shade of red to match his neck, but he keeps that to himself. Time to get to business.

“Seen anybody loitering around recently? Got any scorned associates? People who would know your ATV was where it was?”

Patrick doesn’t say friends, because he’s not sure someone so uptight could have too many of those. Fuck it all if Jonathan isn’t hot like burning, though. His skin is tanned a golden brown from long hours spent in the summer sun, and his body is toned by hard labor. Patrick idly wonders if Jonathan’s as pale as him underneath that white t-shirt, as farmers are rumored to be, or if he works outside without it, doing things like heaving giant-ass drums of corn onto a trailer, apparently.

It’s a fairly distracting train of thought.

Jonathan shrugs. “People are in and out pretty often, I guess. I haven’t—It’s really only me who works out here most of the time, so I don’t think I’ve scorned anybody. I’m sure it wasn’t someone I know.”

“Then who was it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be telling me that?” Jonathan asks, tilting his head to the side like the mouthy teenagers Patrick used to deal with in Buffalo. He somehow refrains from rolling his eyes.

“What’s your gut saying, I mean?”

Patrick’s decent at reading people; it comes with experience, and to him, Jonathan seems like a guy who trusts himself, confident in his own opinions and the whole operation he’s got going, organic corn and all. He’s curious to see if their initial reads are similar.

“A drifter?” Jonathan starts, unsure. “Passing through? Thought he could snag a ride and make some money?”

“Could be,” Patrick says, tossing the idea around, though he’s not really buying it. The theft seems too specific to be that random, the way he sees it. Jonathan’s inclination to pin it on someone from outside the area also suggests to Patrick that he’s trusting of his own, perhaps to his detriment. “Might’ve just taken the pick-up in that case, especially if a speedy getaway was the goal.”  

Jonathan’s head whips toward his truck to double check that it’s still there, Patrick assumes. Then his eyes widen, as if a highly unappealing thought’s just crossed his mind, and he quickly stomps over to it, opening the door and slamming it shut again.

Totally unlocked, and if Patrick had to wager, he’d bet on the keys being in the ignition, or at the very least, in plain sight. Someone simply needed a new ATV, and someone else needed some cash. This had the potential to be way more costly.

“So they _were_ after my goddamn corn,” Jonathan mutters to himself as Patrick approaches the vehicle. He clears his throat to hold back yet another wave of amusement. What a conclusion to come to. “Fucking horseshit.”

He can’t be serious. From the betrayed scowl on his face, it seems he actually might be, and that just makes it even better.

“No offense, man, but who steals a bunch of corn? It’s not really in short supply around here?”

+

“It’s or-gan-ic,” Jonny says, pointedly drawing out each syllable. Deputy Kane clearly doesn’t fucking get it. His corn is probably full of pesticides and fertilizers.

“You said that already, I think,” he replies, irritatingly unfazed. “What do you do with all of it?”

Again with the extracurriculars.

“I grind two barrels down to make corn flour, and feed the rest to my animals that are allowed to have it, and the wildlife,” Jonny says, choosing to indulge him this time. If he can make Deputy Kane understand how important the corn is, maybe he’ll be more inclined to put his back into finding it. The steels drums, trailer, and ATV weren’t exactly free either, but less time goes into cultivating those things.

“That are allowed to have it,” Deputy Kane mouths to himself as he stares off into space, seemingly mystified for a moment.

“Yes, that are allowed to have it,” Jonny reiterates, resisting the urge to go into the full spiel about which animals get what and why. He settles for, “Some are grass-fed only.”  

“Oh, right, grass-fed only, absolutely,” Deputy Kane nods, his tone only slightly mocking, but thoughtful enough, so Jonny lets it slide. “The good news for you then,” he continues, “is that the trailer and corn are probably all we’ll recover, if anything. But we’ll see.”

“ _When_ will we see?” Jonny presses, craning his neck to check out Deputy Kane’s notepad just as he’s closing it up. He’s been jotting things down the whole time, and Jonny’s thankful to see that the correct spelling of Toews was one of them.

“In a day or two,” he says, hopeful, and Jonny sighs, deflating. Seems like the best he can ask for.

“I appreciate you coming out,” Jonny says, and Deputy Kane smiles softly, his good mood gradually working Jonny into a better one. He still thinks Deputy Kane’s a cheeky little shit, but now it’s sort of doing it for him. He really does have a nice mouth.

Deputy Kane extends his hand for Jonny to shake, and though he’s uncharacteristically antsy to make that contact, to actually feel what he feels like, Jonny reaches out and takes it. His skin is cool and soft, his grip firm, with fingernails chewed past the cuticle. Jonny squeezes tight to show who’s boss, and Deputy Kane flexes his fingers. They both hang on a second too long.

“No problem, Jonathan,” he says, voice taking on this deep, gravely quality that Jonny didn’t expect. His name sounded good like that. “Been a pleasure.”

The corner of Jonny’s mouth twitches involuntarily into a smile. “Got better as we went along,” he acquiesces, forcing himself to stay even despite the heat rising to his cheeks. He can be cool, too. “Good luck, Deputy.”

“Patrick is fine,” he replies, echoing Jonny’s words from earlier. “I’ll be in touch.” He maintains eye contact, backpedaling a couple steps before turning from him, and as he retreats to his patrol car, Jonny hates himself a little for admiring the view, but still, he thinks:

Yes, Patrick _is_ fine.

+

Patrick begins Jonathan’s investigation like he does all the others, with a trip back to the station to call some contacts and research leads.

Lucky for him, this part won’t take long, since there probably aren’t any tips that’ll take him anywhere other than the obvious. This isn’t exactly a high stakes case, with moving pieces or suspects giving contradictory alibis. It’s all pretty cut and dry, which is to say, the ATV is as good as gone, nothing more than a cash grab. Patrick won’t even need to break out the white board. It’s just a matter of having enough good fortune left over to find this precious, organic corn, wherever it’s been dumped, after narrowly escaping a full-fledged stolen vehicle.

The crazy thing is, Jonathan would probably count that as a victory.

Of all the stuff missing, the corn would seem to be the least pressing since he can just, you know, grow more? Seriously, Patrick’s never met another person as anal about something so simple, and so easy to rile up, too! But his petulance was more entertaining to Patrick than he cares to admit, honestly, and his passion was endearing, despite being cloaked in anger and sarcasm.

Patrick found himself drawn in, eager to engage and poke at all of Jonathan’s edges, longing for a way to smooth them out. To be completely fair, it’s a tough first impression, meeting someone after they’ve just been robbed. He’s got the tall, dark, and handsome thing on lockdown, as well as an almost tangible aura of self-assurance that Patrick found to be unbelievably sexy; he wants to learn what else Jonathan’s about under more favorable circumstances.

So when Patrick sees him again, it’d be advantageous if he could start with good news. Bottom line is, he’s going to search for that corn like there’s a missing child in one of the barrels. 

He’ll start at the market.

+

Jonny was hopeful that when he saw Patrick again, there would be some news for him, good or bad. He was hopeful it would involve, at the very least, four hundred pounds of corn.

Obviously, that was pushing it.

What Jonny’s got instead is a roll of electrical tape in his pocket, a handful of flyers that simply read, ‘Missing ATV, Trailer, and Corn. Please Return to Jonathan Toews for Reward,’ and an astonished deputy bearing no updates.

“How did you find me so fast?” Patrick asks, clearly shocked to see him.

Jonny scoffs, amused. What an assumption. “I wasn’t looking for you, I’m helping, obviously.”

Patrick looks like a deer in headlights for another second before schooling his expression. Jonny’s not sure how that bodes for the state of his investigation.

In his defense, it’s only been a few hours, but enough time passed for Jonny to feel idle at home, caged in with nothing to do on what would normally be a much-appreciated lazy Sunday. It took him a couple hours of piddling around, creating tasks for himself, to settle on making the flyers, then another ten minutes to get his ideas together and venture into town. He figures putting the things out will occupy him for the remainder of the afternoon, if nothing else. It’s a win for everyone.

“Helping, huh?” Patrick inquires, making wide, curious eyes at Jonny’s flyers. There’s a youthful mischief in them—in him—that Jonny finds so alluring. It doesn’t hurt that Patrick looks sort of pleased to see him now. “What’cha got there?”

He holds one out for Patrick to see.

“Wow, descriptive,” Patrick marvels, topping off his sarcasm with a little whistle. Jonny protectively clutches the flyer back to his chest with the rest of them. “There might be a spot for you on our PD graphic design team.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jonny replies, fighting a smile. With three cups of coffee in his system, the teasing is surprisingly welcome, rather than grating. Out from under his immediate cloud of anger, he’s got more appreciation for Patrick’s—well, his everything. From his confidence and quick wit, to the subtle upturn at the tip of his nose. Then his actual words sink in. “Wait, this low budget department has a graphic design team?"

“Obviously not,” Patrick says with a pretty grin, delighted in the face of Jonny’s chirp. “S’why our t-shirts for the softball league suck so bad.”

“Softball league, eh?”

Jonny tries to picture it: Patrick out of his uniform, in a baseball cap and athletic shorts, wearing their team shirt with the sleeves cut off. He looks like a sunflower seed kind of guy, though Jonny can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it’s his mouth, the way he keeps licking and biting absently at his lips; seems like he’d appreciate the task of methodically cracking each one.

Jonny’s mind predictably strays to other things he could do to keep that mouth busy, and it takes a genuine effort to drag his eyes away from it to meet Patrick’s again.

“I hear the shirts aren’t the only thing that suck.” Jonny doesn’t mean it how it sounds, his face flushing with embarrassment as soon as the words are out.

“Ouch,” Patrick recoils, wounded with a hand to his chest, and thankfully, none the wiser to the implications of Jonny’s inner monologue. Despite the show, he’s quick to bounce back, that quietly cocky smile creeping to his face again. “That was before I got back though, it’s the dawn of a new day now. We’re bringin’ it home this season,” he says, shooting a single finger-gun at Jonny.

As simultaneously cheesy and ridiculous as it is, his self-belief is tough to deny and even tougher for Jonny to shake. Patrick’s a smaller guy than him (and most people on Jonny’s beer league hockey team) and Jonny’s got no idea if he even plays, but for a moment, he has visions of lacing up with him and taking the ice, watching Patrick dance around the defense. He’s got skill player written all over him. Jonny can tell.

“Speaking of bringing things home,” Jonny trails off to change the subject to something safer, realizing again, the hidden double-meaning of his words. He’s got to get a grip.

“Yeah, man,” Patrick says, “I’m on it now. Just left the market actually, doing a little reconnaissance”—The lisp, when Jonny notices it, is a destroyer—“Nothing there, but I’ve got a couple calls placed, too.”

“Made some decent progress then,” Jonny says, giving credit where it’s due, though he’s not sure why Patrick went there. That’s tending towards wishful thinking, in his opinion. Would’ve been much too simple for someone to get caught trying to flip his corn at his own goddamn market. Jonny’s not a cop though, so whatever, he doesn’t say anything.

Patrick nods in agreement, then a brief, slightly awkward silence stretches between them, until they both start speaking at once.

“I’ll, uh, let you get back—”

“I was just about to, uh—”

Jonny chuckles, “You go.”

“It’s nothing, I just—You wanna grab a coffee with me, maybe? I mean, if you’re, uh, into that,” Patrick asks, and Jonny suddenly feels too warm all over. He’s not sure if Patrick’s asking him if he’s into coffee or going all out and asking if he’s into guys, but either way, the answers is yes.  

“I’m into it,” Jonny replies, doing his best to leave out any notable inflections. Watching Patrick squirm is fun. 

“Cool,” Patrick says, “The place I like’s just a few streets down, close to the station actually. Best hot chocolate ever.”

Jonny knows the place, because it’s his favorite, too. Sneaky Brews has a great selection of coffee and tea, and tons of unique blends and specials. So of course Patrick would opt for some basic hot chocolate. “Pretty good donuts, too,” Jonny teases, “but I’m sure you know all about that.” 

“Geez, a cop joke, Toews?” Patrick shoots back. “Brutal.” 

“You didn’t deny it,” Jonny shrugs, and Patrick huffs a laugh, shaking his head. 

“So do you want to or not?” he asks again, and Jonny pretends to think about it, even though his mind was made up the second Patrick asked. He’s headed that direction to hand out flyers, anyway. 

“I do.” 

+ 

The instant Patrick reaches out to open the door into Sneaky Brews, his phone blasts off in his pocket. Typically, he's a vibrate guy all day long, but when he's on the clock, it only makes sense to keep the volume up, even if it does scare the ever-loving shit out of him every time. 

It’s certainly not the kind of ringing that can be easily ignored, so he’ll answer, but Patrick fucking prays it's someone he can blow off. Jonathan agreed to come with him, dorky flyers in tow and all, and Patrick wants ten more minutes, that’s it; he shoots up a silent plea to God, if he’s listening, not to ruin this.

  
“You gettin’ that or no?” Jonathan asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, lemme just—hang on,” Patrick huffs, digging his phone from his pants as they linger in front of the doorway. 

Of course, it’s Versteeg, the last person he wants it to be, and in a cruel twist of fate, just the person he needs to speak with about Jonathan’s case. Patrick curses under his breath, looking up at him with complete remorse. “I need to take this, could be a lead on the theft.” 

“Oh yeah, no, please, go ahead,” Jonathan rambles politely. “I’m sure you need to get back to the station.”

Patrick doesn’t say how much he’d rather get coffee with him than talk to Kris, but he’s hopeful his face says it for him without being too obvious and pathetic. “Raincheck?” he prompts, nervous in a way he wasn’t when he asked the first time. It’s just, the thought of disappointing Jonathan is so strangely unsettling. Not that getting coffee with Patrick is some big thing for him or whatever. It’s whatever. 

“Sure,” Jonathan answers with a soft, earnest smile. He pulls his electrical tape from his pocket again, because obviously he’d want to put a flyer up, just as he did every twenty-five feet on their walk here. So dedicated. Such a boy scout.   

Patrick smiles back, wistful. “Cool, I’ll let you know about—” He finishes his thought with a gesture of the phone before answering it, and Jonathan gives a little wave in return. 

Chances to be had… 

“I hate you so much right now,” Patrick grumbles into the speaker when he’s a safe distance away, doing nothing to hide his disdain at having to abandon Jonathan for work. Though technically, he _is_ Patrick’s work right now. The case is his priority because it’s Jonathan’s, and also, you know, his job. Fuck it. 

“Oh, hi, Steegs, thanks a ton for calling back to help me out on your off day, you’re totes the best,” Kris says in his most mocking tone. “Jesus, no respect.” 

“S’not like you’re doing anything worthwhile anyway,” Patrick answers flatly. “You’re just shit at answering your phone the first time.” 

“I screen my calls based on importance, Kaner,” he says. “Not my fault you didn’t make first cuts.”

Patrick doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s grinning like a totes asshole. He and Kris have been friends far too long, picking up right where they left off after Patrick’s transfer back, and distance, near or far, doesn’t change him. 

“Sick burn, dude,” Patrick replies, and Kris cackles in his ear. 

“What can I do for you, Peeksy?” 

“I’ve got a farm theft, those pretty common around here?” Patrick inquires, and Kris blows out a breath. 

“Once every few months. Surprised it doesn’t happen more often, since all anybody does is fucking farm.” It’s an exaggeration, but it’s not too far off. It was that way when they were young, and much like Kris, the place hasn’t changed. 

“Ever get anything back?” Patrick asks as he reaches the station, only a brief walk from Sneaky Brews; it’s why Patrick goes so often, a constant temptation. 

“Hell no,” Kris says, painfully honest, and Patrick groans. Shit shit shit. “The deals are pre-arranged so somebody’s sitting on ready to give the money, get the stuff and whisk it away. It’s hard to catch ‘em unless it’s in the act, and that hasn’t happened yet.” 

“So there’s like, a drop off spot then?” Patrick probes. He’s pretty sure the only reason the corn and trailer were even stolen is because it was too heavy to unhook solo. It’s last-ditch thinking, but maybe the perp could’ve left it somewhere later, after he got help. 

“We’ve got general ideas about where they could be doing it, but spots change, they’re not idiots,” Kris tells him, and Patrick hmmms, partly out of habit, but mostly because he knows it annoys Kris. “Why? What’re you lookin’ for?” 

“Corn,” Patrick says, bracing to give an explanation, a smile threatening his face already. 

“Uhh, why?” Kris asks, confused. 

“Because the guy is—” Patrick chuckles to himself, thinking about how ridiculous Jonathan was this morning. “—passionate about his corn. Got his ATV, too.” 

“But he doesn’t care? What a dipshit.” 

“Oh, he does. But the corn is organic, so,” Patrick says, stressing its importance just as Jonathan did, his amusement hard to mask, “that’s what he really wants back.”

“Are you fucking giggling?” 

Being called out only makes it worse. 

“I mean, it was funny. He was just—You should’ve seen him, man, stomping around so mad, his face just got redder and redder. I thought he was gonna lecture me on the appropriate diet for livestock! It was—” Patrick takes a deep breath and fades off, suddenly self-conscious for getting so wrapped up. “—I dunno. Whatever, shut the fuck up.” 

“Wow,” Kris says, stunned into a brief silence for possibly the first time ever. 

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, clearing his throat and leaving the silence to say the rest for him. He’s into Jonathan. So what? It’s not a crime. 

“Well shit, Kaner,” Kris finally says, “Let’s find that corn and get you laid then.” 

+ 

Jonny’s not expecting any company. 

Which is why, at seven o’clock that evening, every hair on his head prickles to attention when he hears a vehicle turn down the drive. He’s been on red alert since the robbery, but even if he had missed the shift and scrape of gravel beneath tires, the obnoxious honk!—honk! of the horn that followed would’ve gotten his attention anyway. 

“Jesus, who the fuck,” he grumbles to himself, staring down at his near-perfectly plated meal on the counter; all it lacks is a dab of rosemary-infused butter on top of the steaks. 

The timing is unfortunate, to put it lightly. Jonny didn’t let this fucking meat marinate for two days to eat it at anything other than the perfect temperature, so he quickly covers his dinner with aluminum foil and tosses it into the oven, still warm from roasting vegetables. Then Jonny heads outside to investigate, squinting in the direction of the headlights as he steps onto the front porch, blinded as the truck approaches. 

It’s one he doesn’t recognize, but when it angles to park, Jonny notices what it’s towing: A red trailer loaded with four steel drums. 

A mile-wide smile breaks across his face. Patrick found his corn. 

Jonny watches him kill the engine and hop out of the truck, looking every bit as proud of himself as he deserves to be. He’s alone, thankfully; still in his uniform, more crumpled than artfully creased after a full day’s work; and just as attractive as Jonny remembers, curls a little fluffed out in the absence of his hat. 

Jonny spent all afternoon trying not to think about him, distracting himself from wondering what Patrick was doing and how the search was going after he bailed. He was more disappointed by the coffee-date-that-never-was than he cares to admit, so seeing Patrick now almost feels like relief. No way Jonny’s letting him know that, though. 

“Scaring my chickens with that horn, officer,” he calls out with what he hopes is a casual grin, propping against the wooden rail as Patrick makes his way over to the porch. 

“My apologies to the poultry, sir,” Patrick says in his most comically official police voice. He stops once he reaches the bottom step and gestures to the trailer behind him. “I believe this stuff belongs to you.”

“I believe you’re right,” Jonny replies, amused by Patrick’s failed attempts to mask how pleased he is, his blue eyes shining in the porch light. He bites at his bottom lip to hide his smile, but it only serves to accentuate his dimples, a subtle smugness permeating through him. 

“How’s _that_ for timely?”

“Yeah, I take back everything I said about you when you were taking forever to get here this morning,” Jonny says, deadpan, and when Patrick opens his mouth to debate the issue, he raises his hands in quick surrender. “I'm kidding, just kidding.” 

“Oh, you are not,” Patrick calls him out, “you were fuming.” 

“I guess I was, huh,” Jonny admits, cheeks flushing. But it’s not every day he gets fucking robbed, and even though that should earn him a little slack on Patrick’s end, he bites the bullet and says, “I do take it back.” 

And he does. 

“Happy to be redeemed,” Patrick says with an appreciative nod and a quiet smile. He looks so good like this, soft and relaxed, leaned on the porch just as Jonny is, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Despite his stillness, he’s buzzing with an energy that Jonny can’t get enough of, and before he can fully wrap his mind around what he’s doing, his mouth is moving: 

“You off duty now?” 

“I am,” Patrick replies, “This was my last order of business.” 

Good. Jonny sucks in a shallow breath, steeling himself. Screw looking too eager. He will follow through with this. He wants this. 

“You could, uh—Would you want to come in for dinner? I was just about to sit down and eat, and I made a steak too many, so—” In reality, with the workout regimen he’s on, he could put down both of the bison steaks and was planning to, but sharing with Patrick would undoubtedly be more satisfying.

“What about the trailer?” he asks. 

“Unhook it later?” Jonny shrugs, his offer hanging between them in a brief, thick silence. Patrick seems interested enough, but still, he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, considering, hesitant for some reason. It’s as nervous as Jonny’s seen him. 

“Really? I mean, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to crash or—” 

“You’re not,” Jonny insists. “It’s the least I can do, eh? You earned it.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” 

The shit-eating grin is back, so maybe he wants it, too. 

“You did.” 

+ 

Patrick’s hands should not be this fucking sweaty, he thinks, wiping them on his uniform as Jonathan leads him up the steps and into the house. The view from behind is awesome; Jonathan’s sweatpants are low on his hips and snug around his thighs, his white t-shirt provocatively sheer. It’s a good look.

Patrick can’t believe this is happening.

He politely slips his shoes off by the door next to a pile of work boots, athletic sneakers, and one too many pairs of flip flops. Jonathan is, of course, barefoot already, just as he was this morning (Patrick’s shocked he wore shoes into town, honestly). It’s inexplicably sexy, warm and inviting in a way, now that he’s really seeing Jonathan in his natural habitat, so to speak. 

Patrick draws in a slow breath to calm his nerves.  He wants this. After the coffee thing today, he thought he’d blown his best chance at going for it. Little did he know, better was still to come. They're about to have dinner, that Jonathan cooked in his own kitchen. 

Back in the saddle, baby. 

“This is it,” Jonathan says dryly, gesturing unceremoniously around the foyer. 

The place is nice, spacious with an open floor plan and hardwood throughout. Patrick can see through to the kitchen and living room, outfitted with rustic furniture and a sleek big screen TV mounted on the wall. There’s a clean simplicity to the decor that suits him, Patrick thinks, even if the curtains are lame. 

Well, it’s clean in style, anyway. 

By Patrick’s standards, the rest is just short of a mild disaster. There are papers littered about every surface, random stacks of receipts and mail and magazines, and two overflowing clothes baskets on the dining room table. Patrick resists the urge to tidy the fuck out of everything. He could have that laundry folded in less than ten minutes flat. 

“Uh, sorry about the mess,” Jonathan adds, aware enough to be bashful, and Patrick tears his eyes away from the chaos in question to smile, reassuring. He could probably be an all-out hoarder and Patrick would still be into him, so he tells an insignificant fib.

“I don’t mind.”

Jonathan blows out an incredulous breath. “You're a bad liar.” 

“I’m a great liar, thank you very much.” 

Patrick’s a fucking cop, trained in the art of composure under stressful conditions, the very foundation of being a good liar; but even before then, he was a master. His mom can confirm. 

“Tell that to your face, bud,” Jonathan says, a know-it-all spring in his step as he continues on into the kitchen, leaving Patrick feeling slightly exposed and slow to follow. He got lucky with an easy read, is all, and at any rate, whatever he cooked smells absolutely amazing, so Patrick shoulders on. “There’s a method to it, so you know.” 

“To all this?” Patrick asks, skeptical. He’s willing to bet Jonathan spends way more time than necessary rifling through shit when a few folders here and there would solve his problems. 

“It all has its place.” Jonathan sounds so sure of it, Patrick’s almost lulled into believing this is an appropriate system. It’s impressive, to be honest, but no. 

“And that place is all over the place,” Patrick jokes, and Jonathan huffs a self-deprecating laugh and motions for Patrick to have a seat at the bar. He does as he’s told, watching closely as Jonathan walks over to the stove and removes the food, then grabs an extra plate for him. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says, dismissive to disguise his blush, and opens the fridge. “Beer or water?” 

Patrick opts for the beer to help him loosen up a little, despite the fact that it’s a brand he would never choose for himself, or anyone else, because it’s gross. Jonathan slides it over, along with his plate, and Patrick does his best to keep his expression neutral since Jonathan thinks he’s some expert on his face now. 

Once it’s in front of him, Patrick’s borderline distracted by how good the food looks—juicy steak, perfectly roasted sweet potatoes, and some sort of sautéed greens, probably kale or some shit; he doesn’t register Jonathan round the counter and take a seat next to him until he’s so close, Patrick can practically feel him there. 

He turns up his bottle for a swig of liquid courage and takes a chance, slowly widening his legs until their knees bump. “Looks great,” Patrick compliments, nudging him a couple times as he asks, “Genuine grass-fed beef?” 

“Bison,” Jonathan corrects. “But yes.” The “obviously, Patrick” is implicit. What a meat snob. 

Patrick hmmms thoughtfully as he picks up his knife and fork, slicing off a piece and shoving it in his mouth. “Who would even dreeeam of eating anything else?” he goads as he chews, and Jonathan gives him a playful elbow in return, pressing his thigh further into Patrick’s space beneath the bar.

“You’re terrible,” Jonathan teases, but there’s no heat to it. Patrick knows what the heat’s like. He got plenty of it this morning. Now, messing around with him just feels—well, it feels right, their nearly instant chemistry making it easy as breathing. 

They eat together in companionable silence at first, and Patrick’s not sure if Jonathan prefers it that way or if there should be more talking. He glances over at him curiously, to find that Jonathan’s already looking back, a small, content smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he chews. Suddenly, Patrick wants to know everything about him. 

So he asks. And he learns that Jonathan is originally from Winnipeg, earned his degrees in business and environmental sciences, and bought this land five years ago when he moved to the area. He says enough, without revealing too much or too little, but as the minutes tick by, Patrick can feel Jonathan settling in and opening up more. He uses his hands a lot when he’s telling a story, waving his fork around for emphasis, or putting it down altogether to really get into it. Patrick thinks he could listen to him go on, voice deep and soothing, forever. 

They’re on the subject of what vegetables Jonathan grows—there’s an extensive list—when he brings up his case again. 

“Where'd you find it, by the way? The corn?” 

“In the absolute middle of nowhere,” Patrick tells him with a sigh. After driving around for hours, checking every offhand country road, nook, and cranny Steeger could think of. He strategically leaves that part out. “A buddy of mine on the force had a couple leads on dump spots,” he shrugs, “Got lucky.” 

“Fucking dump spots. What a waste,” Jonathan scoffs bitterly, then shakes his head as if to physically dispel the thought itself, and continues with purpose, “So you’re new at the department?”

“Yeah, but I’m not a new cop. Just new here,” Patrick explains. “Well, new to the squad, I mean, not to the area. I just moved back,” he amends, setting a personal record for the use of the word ‘new’ in a single thought. 

“From?” 

“Buffalo,” Patrick says, “Lived there ‘til I was seven, then we moved here, but I went back for college.” He hated it when he was little, until he met Kris, but still, Patrick would’ve stayed gone, had he not— 

“So, you’re new to this department. Is that why you don’t carry a gun yet?” Jonathan interrupts his thoughts, catching him off guard with the specificity of his question. 

“What?” 

“You don’t carry a gun, I noticed today.” 

Jonathan’s nonchalant in his observation, as if he’s commenting on the weather, while Patrick grows fidgety in his chair. He downs the last of his beer, thinking back to the scariest day of his life. 

“I haven’t carried one since my last patrol in Buffalo.”

+

Jonny doesn’t care for the change in Patrick’s tone. There’s a shakiness now, like he’s frightened of some far away thing, and it’s incredibly unsettling. Jonny shifts in his seat, angling toward him, and he’s hesitant to ask, but he does, anyway.

“What happened?” 

Patrick clears his throat and shrugs to downplay whatever it is he’s about to say, while Jonny drowns in anticipation. 

“I, um, sort of got shot a few months back?” 

The nausea hits him in a wave of surprise low in his gut, and Jonny’s not sure what his face looks like, but it leads Patrick to continue, “It was—” He chuckles nervously, once, like he can’t believe it happened either. “—I guess it was pretty bad, but it’s not a big deal now.” 

“Not a big deal now?” Jonny repeats stupidly through the shock. He lets his eyes run over  Patrick’s body, searching for anything resembling a scar, evidence that what he's saying is true, but he’s covered from wrist to ankle in his uniform. From what Jonny can see, he’s perfect, and he can't imagine anything under there altering that opinion. 

He's suddenly embarrassed, not only for reaching for the skeletons in Patrick’s closet first thing, but for staring at him like an idiot about it, too. “Right, I—uh, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Patrick says earnestly, reaching out to rest a comforting hand on Jonny’s knee. It should be the other way around, he thinks, since Patrick’s the one who got shot, but he isn’t going to complain. “It’s just a crazy thing that happened, and now I’m fine.” 

“Good as new, eh?” Jonny asks, doing his best to wipe that visual of him as anything other than alive and right here, from his mind. 

“Never been better, you could say,” Patrick remarks, and Jonny watches with intense interest as he sways toward him before stopping himself, feels him tentatively inch his hand up Jonny’s thigh. Patrick holds his gaze and bites at his bottom lip with a nod, just a slight upward tilt of his chin, and it feels like a dare, a challenge. 

The mood shifts slowly, then all at once, and Jonny knew—well, he hoped they were heading here, and yet feels unprepared, like he's in the middle of a dream instead of the middle of dinner. 

“Patrick—” he starts, anything more eloquent stuck in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out just higher than a whisper, flexing his fingers against Jonny’s thigh, “C’mon.”

Jonny can't remember the last time he wanted someone so badly, especially a person he just met less than twelve hours ago. He’s not a teenager anymore, ruled by his dick and the heat of a moment, so it makes no fucking sense, and yet the attraction seems palpable to him.

As calmly as he can, Jonny circles Patrick’s wrist, his skin cool to the touch. He moves his hand from his thigh so he can slide off the chair, and Jonny's close enough to push between Patrick’s spread legs, but he doesn't. Instead, he slowly trails his hand up Patrick's arm, all the way to hold the place where shoulder meets neck, and drags his thumb along the column of Patrick’s throat. 

“S’what you want?” Jonny asks, voice rough like he's already gone down on him, even though he's only just considering it at the moment. Patrick tips his head back a little, stretching his neck to him. It feels like approval, so Jonny applies the slightest pressure to test the waters, and Patrick lets his eyes briefly flutter closed, lips parting on an inhale. It’s unbelievably sexy, and if this turns out to be a one-time deal, Jonny never wants to forget that visual, the feeling of Patrick’s pulse beating beneath his fingers. 

Patrick blinks back to focus and reaches between them to grip Jonny's hips, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as a promiscuous smile plays at his lips. “Almost,” he says, tugging Jonny toward him.

He goes easily, fitting snugly into that space between his opens thighs, and since he's already going in that direction, Jonny dips his head down, close enough he can feel Patrick’s exhale warm on his lips. “How ‘bout now?” he asks, easing his hand up to hold Patrick gently beneath his jaw, leaving him free to come the rest of the way.

“Almost,” he repeats in a whisper, finally pressing their lips together in a firm, close-mouthed kiss. Jonny breathes him in, tilting his chin up to get to him better, and Patrick doesn’t waste any time deepening it, readjusting and diving in again as his hands slip eagerly up the front of Jonny’s t-shirt. 

There’s no reason whatsoever that making out should be getting him this worked up, but fuck if Jonny’s not about to lose it, overwhelmed and ridiculously into all the places Patrick's touching him. For as good as his mouth looks, holy shit, it feels even better, and it doesn’t hurt that he knows exactly what he’s doing with it, coaxing Jonny into a game of tease and chase. 

Patrick sucks at his bottom lip, then pulls away just enough that he thinks Patrick’s going to break the kiss, drawing him back in to slip his tongue into Jonny’s mouth. All he wants is to get closer to him—to see more, touch more, his hands roaming over Patrick’s thick shoulders and down his back. 

They’re moving together in perfect sync, a steady push-pull of nipping and sucking and licking into each other’s mouths, right there in the fucking kitchen. Neither of them are being particularly quiet, their combined breathing filling the room; Jonny’s absolutely living for all the sounds Patrick’s making, little moans that seem to have a straight line of communication to his dick. 

It shouldn’t feel this good. 

But it does. 

+ 

Patrick's heart is going to burst from his chest. 

Jonathan’s body is incredible, all hard muscle and silky smooth skin. He wants to explore every single inch of it. The issue is in deciding where to go first, since he wants his hands and mouth (and hopefully at some point, his dick) everywhere all at once. Jonathan’s kissing back like he wants to fucking _win_ at it, and Patrick can only pray that he's playing it cooler on the surface than he feels down below, unhinged and achy for it. 

With a satisfied sigh, he turns his head to come up for air, removing his hands from under Jonathan’s shirt to reach up and grip the back of his neck. Patrick would stand too, so Jonathan doesn’t have to bend so far, but there’s zero chance he’s not at least halfway hard already, so that’s off the table for the moment. That’s an embarrassment he would like to avoid, especially if Jonathan’s not on board with rounding second. 

Instead, forehead-to-forehead, Patrick presses a soft, wet kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another. He can feel Jonathan smiling against his lips, and it’s an amazing feeling, knowing he could be as into this as Patrick is. 

“Do you have any fucking idea how hot you are?” Patrick means it to be genuine, because if Jonathan doesn’t, he’s here to spread the gospel. 

“Do you?” Jonathan throws the question back at him, dragging his lips along his jaw to kiss beneath his ear. His hands slide around to Patrick’s chest, and he taps at a uniform button. “Can we do something about this?” 

“Like what?” Patrick asks, mostly because he’s curious to see how far Jonathan pushes it, and partly because he wants to hear him say it. 

“Like open it,” he suggests, “get rid of it, I don’t care.” 

Even though it’s like an icebox in Jonathan’s place, Patrick’s happy to oblige him; or rather, happy to let Jonathan oblige himself. “Be my guest.” 

He acts with no hesitance, straightening to deftly working through the first half of Patrick’s buttons until—“Fuck you, you’re wearing something else under here.” 

Patrick snorts a laugh. Even he forgot about the white tank for a second. “Oops.” 

Jonathan shakes his head, managing to look judgmental about something that’s perfectly reasonable. It’s impressive. He finishes undoing the buttons, too impatient to be bothered with actually taking the uniform off, and Patrick’s a little grateful; even with the undershirt, he feels a shiver creeping up his spine, partly from the chill, but mostly from being looked at this way, Jonathan’s eyes heavy on him. 

Patrick sucks air through his teeth in a quiet hiss when Jonathan brushes a thumb over his nipple without warning, sensitive as they always are, on his way up to Patrick’s chain. Jonathan skims his fingers over it, tickling Patrick’s skin at its edges. Nobody’s ever paid this much attention to it before. 

Jonathan gives a light tug. “I like this,” he announces, then uses it to reel Patrick off his chair and back to his mouth again. It’s not exactly a hardship to comply, even if his necklace wasn’t at stake in resistance. It’s easy to forget the boner issue too, when Jonathan kisses him, tender and relaxed. As hot and exciting as going fast was, going slow is even more awesome. Patrick can savor it this way, better remember how it feels for Jonathan’s mouth to move down his neck with feather-light kisses, his fingers creeping from chain to the strap of Patrick’s tank. 

Patrick tilts to the side to give Jonathan room, cradling the back of his head as he reaches his collarbone. Jonathan shoves the strap off Patrick’s shoulder and out of the way, and before his mind can catch up and brace him for what he knows Jonathan’s about to see, he’s already stopped. 

“Is this where—?” 

Getting shot leaves a pretty gnarly fucking mark, it turns out. Only seven months removed from the accident, it looks a million times better, of course, but it’s still pretty freshly healed, the skin a puckered, pinkish-red that stands out from the rest of him. Jonathan’s staring at him, but it’s not with pity, like he’s used to seeing when someone learns what happened or notices the scar. He looks weirdly relieved, despite the gravity in his eyes. 

“It doesn’t—” Jonathan breathes out, tracing his finger around it without making direct contact “—hurt anymore, does it?”

“Nope,” Patrick says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not for Jonathan to bend down and continue what he started, pressing his lips to the inside of the scar before kissing it straight on. Patrick’s taken with the intimacy of the moment, Jonathan seeing and touching something that makes him feel so vulnerable. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s holding it together. “Jonathan—”

His other hand slides down Patrick’s back, pulling their bodies flush to one another. The hard line of Jonathan’s cock is unmistakable, and Patrick presses into him more firmly, to let him know he’s not alone. He hears Jonathan suck in a breath, mumbling something he can’t understand that maybe isn’t even in English. Patrick’s just about to go for his shirt to move things along when— 

“Let me blow you,” Jonathan offers, working his way back up to Patrick’s mouth. He two-hand grabs his ass, and Patrick gasps when Jonathan’s groin grinds insistently over his dick. “Please.” 

Patrick kisses him hard, already getting a head start on his belt buckle between them as best he can, “Well fuck, since you asked so nice.” 

“I’m sure that’s the only reason,” Jonathan says smugly, nipping at Patrick’s bottom lip before he abruptly drops to his fucking knees in front of him. 

“Oh my god,” Patrick mutters to himself with a deep, shaky breath, barreling toward combustion. Jonathan’s about to put his dick in his mouth. 

This is not a drill. 

He’s thankful that Jonathan takes it slow at first, unzipping his pants and easing them down his thighs, letting the anticipation build. He keeps glancing back up at Patrick with dark, longing eyes, and Patrick can’t help but reach down and rake his fingers through Jonathan’s hair. He’s never had anybody this hot suck him off in a kitchen before, or maybe at all, not even in college, and Jonathan can bet his sweet ass that this is going down as a hall of famer in his spank bank. 

“Want you so bad.”

Patrick doesn’t mean to say it out loud. He doesn’t mean to be so obvious.

Jonathan answers him with silent action and a seductive smile, pulling his waistband down and tucking it beneath his balls. He doesn’t miss how Jonathan’s eyes widen when he springs free, the corner of his mouth twitching as he licks his lips and sizes him up. Jonathan takes him by the base with a sure firmness, and just before his lips make contact with Patrick’s cock, something important occurs to him, and he blurts, “Jon, guess what?” 

Jonathan huffs impatiently, “Hm?” 

“You can swallow, you know,” Patrick pauses for maximum effect, thumbing at Jonathan’s bottom lip. “It’s organic.” 

He manages not to laugh too much at his own masterfully executed joke, which is a feat in itself, and Jonathan groans, shaking his head with fond amusement. 

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, and with no further preamble, takes Patrick into his mouth, hot and wet and perfect. 

Patrick’s giggles promptly choke off into a moan. 

+ 

Patrick is going to come, very soon.

Jonny can tell by how much he’s squirming, the way he’s breathing roughly and hitching his hips, stretching up on his toes to get more.

It’s only been about two minutes, and Patrick hasn’t stopped talking or moving since Jonny got started. He goes from clutching the counter, to tugging at Jonny’s hair, to rubbing his shoulders; from head tipped back and gasping at the ceiling to hunched over, telling Jonny how good it is. 

Jonny loves hearing how good it is. 

He runs his hands up the back of Patrick’s bare thighs to grab his ass, and he can’t be sure of it, but it seems the thing was made for them, as perfectly as it fits in his grip. Jonny holds him still and takes him deep again, and Patrick swears colorfully.

“You’re killin’ me, you know that,” Patrick gasps, and Jonny hmmms in response as he pulls back to suck at his head, tonguing around the edge like he’s quickly learned Patrick likes. “Yeah, you fucking know it. Ugh, it’s so—God, you’re killin’ me. C’mon.”

Jonny’s nearly as bad off as Patrick is, jamming a hand into his sweatpants to provide some relief when he can’t stand it anymore, discovering a massive wet spot on the front. Jonny bunches his foreskin at the tip to help take the edge off, using the other to aid his mouth in finishing Patrick, moving with short, hard sucks and quick twists of his wrist. 

“Yeah, Jon,” Patrick encourages, “Gonna get you yours, too. I—Fuck yeah, I’m gonna—I’m gonna come.” The second the words are out, he shoots into Jonny’s mouth, hot and thick, and Jonny moans around his cock, speeding his hand on his own as he swallows him down. 

It’s a lot, seeing and hearing Patrick so fucking wrecked. His eyes are shut tight, mouth hanging open and thighs trembling. He’s fucking gorgeous and panting, and it’s almost enough to get the job done for Jonny on its own. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Patrick chants, taking a moment and a few shallow breaths before nudging Jonny back with his thigh and sinking to his knees in front of him. “That was—” 

Jonny cuts him off with a searing kiss, and Patrick groans into it, joining Jonny’s hand with his own to jerk him off. It was a nice effort, but Jonny’s breathing so hard, he has to break the kiss, and still, Patrick stays right there in his space, clutching the back of his neck and talking him through it. 

“I can taste me in your mouth,” Patrick says, voice low and filthy. “You sucked me so fucking good. It’s your turn, let me have it, baby.”

“Patrick—” Jonny whines, dick swelling in his grip and balls tightening.

“Come on me, Jonny, you can,” Patrick tells him.

Between that and Patrick calling him baby, Jesus fuck— 

That’s all she wrote. 

Jonny comes in a rush of sensation and mild-blowing heat, slumping into Patrick as he stripes up his white tank. He can’t catch his breath, but somehow he manages, “Christ, Patrick,” reaching up to tangle a hand in his curls. 

“Yeah?” 

After a minute of collection and reflection, Jonny finishes his thought, totally resolved. “That was worth getting robbed.”

Patrick blows out a breath, smoothing his hands over Jonny’s chest and up to his shoulders. Jonny’s skin is hot and flushed and hyper-sensitive, and still, he never wants Patrick to stop touching him. 

“That might’ve been worth getting fucking shot, to be honest with you.” 

“Don’t you say that,” Jonny scolds, pressing a kiss to his lips, red where they’ve both been biting at them, and pinching his side in reprimand. Patrick chuckles and jerks back to sit on his haunches, glancing between them as he adjusts his shirt. 

“You got jizz on my uniform,” Patrick announces flatly, and Jonny fights the urge to kiss him between his adorably furrowed brows. 

“In my defense, you said I could.” 

“I know what I said,” Patrick replies with a smirk, “I thought you’d aim better.” 

“Oops,” Jonny shrugs, mimicking Patrick’s tone from earlier. He leans forward for a kiss, because he can't seem to not, and Patrick helpfully meets him halfway. 

“Hey,” Patrick mumbles after a second. “What about the trailer?”

It’s literally the last thing on Jonny’s mind, swimming with thoughts of Patrick and bed and round two, or three, or four instead. He decides to take a chance. 

“Take care of it in the morning?” 

He holds his breath for Patrick’s answer, which starts with the same beautiful, dimpled smile that commanded Jonny’s attention from the very first moment they met. 

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Jonny exhales and kisses him again. 

Yes, yes it does.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to heartstrings for being my forever extra set of eyes. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> come find me on tumblr @[toewsme1988](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com) or twitter @[seabsneckbeard ](https://twitter.com/seabsneckbeard)!


End file.
